


Overheard

by Saathi1013



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: College, Exhibitionism, Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, POV Male Character, POV Third Person Limited, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3854479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the daredevil kinkmeme:</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>"Matt and Foggy shared a dorm room (for at least a year I'm assuming), so I'm sure there had to be occasions where one of them would find the other in a compromising situation, right? </p>
  <p>"So let's say Matt brought someone home late one night (guy or girl, though I'm leaning towards guy) and Foggy's there asleep. They start having sex and at some point Matt realizes that Foggy woke up and is just pretending to be asleep (thanks to his trusty "hearing someone's heartbeat" power or whatever) and gets off even harder as a result. </p>
  <p>"Bonus points if there's an awkward morning after where Matt knows why Foggy is feeling awkward but pretends not to, and then this feeds into why Foggy makes the comment in 1x10 about realizing Matt always knew when he was lying."<br/>-- http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=134101#cmt134101</p>
</blockquote><p>Basically that, EXCEPT the OP gave me the go-ahead to change "Matt having sex with someone else" to "Matt masturbating."</p><p>Contains indirect mention of Matt/OFC and Matt/OMC, though this is essentially Matt/Foggy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overheard

**Author's Note:**

> No beta; grammar/spelling errors, if pointed out, will be corrected ASAP. Additional concrit: pm me.
> 
> Prompter!Anon, if you want me to tag you here as the giftee, just let me know.

Matt can't sleep.  
  
It's 2 am and he's got a test on juvenile sentencing tomorrow and  _he can't sleep._  The dormitory thrums around him, probably silent to any other ears but his. People seem to think the residences are generally quiet at night, but he can hear the strains of music coming from half a dozen rooms, a toilet flushing, four sinks and a showerhead leaking, someone crying, and three people having sex.   
  
Matt's tempted to congratulate Mason in the morning for that last fact, but then he'd have to explain how he knows about it. Scratch that, then.  
  
He tries to refocus, let his mind settle. When he tries to meditate, his equilibrium drowns in an torrent of words, statutes and precedents skittering like gravel, dissenting opinions rolling him under in a tidal current.  
  
There's a loud burst of laughter outside, and it jolts him back to full consciousness. Someone's cooking shrimp ramen down the hall. Foggy murmurs in his sleep, very faintly.  
  
Matt focuses on the latter. Foggy's breaths are deep and even, his radiant warmth a solid, steady presence across the room. Anchored some, Matt unwinds. Not entirely, no, but it's a start.  
  
He can do this. He can. He's had years of practice tuning out the constant chaos of the world. It's only that it's more difficult when he hasn't had enough regular rest, when he hasn't had enough free time for training, when he's stressed. He feels unbalanced.  
  
At the rate he's going, he'll probably fail the test tomorrow through sheer exhaustion, if not oversleep all together. Time for more drastic measures... Well, not so much 'drastic' as 'totally inappropriate.' He checks on his roommate, but Foggy's breathing is still heavy with slumber. If Matt gets up, goes someplace more private like the showers, he'll probably wake Foggy, and that'll do more harm than good.  
  
So Matt just needs to be  _quiet._  He can do that.  
  
He lets his mind wander. The last girl he'd been intimate with had been Marissa; her hair had smelled of citrus and sugar, the springy curls heavy and dense in his hands. Her laugh had been loud and ringing, the first thing he'd noticed about her when he'd crossed the quad on his way to class. She'd enjoyed giving him leisurely blowjobs that had left him panting and hoarse and wrung out. And when she was done, she'd liked telling him in painstaking detail  _exactly_  how he'd looked writhing under her attention, and then he'd pull her up to ride his face until she'd gone totally incoherent.  
  
The memories send a thrum through Matt's system, pulse rising and skin flushing. He almost wants to savor it, but it's probably getting close to three and that's not his goal tonight. He reaches under the waistband of his pajama pants to cup himself, his half-hard dick lining up with the crease at the base of his thumb. Rolling his hips up, he grinds against his hand in a few slow, slight pushes, finishing the work that reminiscence began.  
  
There's a moan from Mason's room, loud enough that he wonders if anyone else can hear it. It helps, though, helps him recall the timbre of Marissa's voice when it was pitched in low, affectionate tones. Helps him remember the sweet slick heat between her thighs, the soft swell of her stomach that she'd always been self-conscious about. ("I know you can't see the stretch marks, but..." she'd explained once, her shoulder rolling in a shrug under his cheek; Matt had known better than to tell her that he could  _feel_  them, that he liked tracing, mapping, memorizing those subtle streaks of thinner skin.)  
  
Matt licks his palm, tasting salt and ink and paper and the sharp astringent soap they have in all the bathrooms here. He wraps his hand around his dick again, webbing dragging just right against the side of the head. Another sound from whatever bacchanal Mason's enjoying, this time in a familiar male baritone. Matt skids his mind away from imagining Mason in bed, because they have study sessions for torts twice a week. Between that, being neighbors, and Mason being  _painfully_  straight, Matt knows better.  
  
Instead, he thinks about the barista - Jake? James? Jay, maybe - at the coffee place Foggy had introduced him to. He thinks about how Jay's speech gets slightly more rushed when Matt's at the counter, ever so slightly breathy. The way his hand lingers when he gives Matt his coffee, using the excuse of making sure Matt's got a steady grip to prolong the contact. The breadth of his shoulders and how his spicy aftershave blends with the smell of roasted beans instead of clashing. He's taller than Matt, too, solidly built, maybe even stronger. Matt can easily imagine being wrapped up in him, blanketed by him, fucked with measured, scrupulous care.  
  
Matt's getting close, perspiration making the sheets catch against his skin as he strokes himself with furtive haste. He can hear a few of his mattress springs squeaking, but the sound's probably muted enough to not carry far. Still, he bites his lip and uses his other hand to smother any remaining noise he might be making.  
  
It's not quite enough, though. He's all too aware that he's alone in his narrow bed, that it's his own fingers making a tight circle around his cock. Even if he knew he had a partner watching, it would be better than this. Watching, sure, maybe giving instructions... And  _oh,_  he didn't expect that idea to send a thrill through him, push him right up to the edge of the precipice, but it does, and it's good, so good...  
  
That would be about the time his mercurial id reminds him that he actually  _isn't_  alone in the room, and he's shocked over the edge, biting at the base of his thumb, grunting as he comes in slick, messy spurts into his hand.  
  
_Fuck,_  Matt thinks, pulse tripping in his chest as he tries to re-regulate his breathing as quietly as possible.  _That's new._  Overheated, he wriggles out of his sleep shirt, using it to wipe himself clean. He resolves to deal with this new revelation tomorrow - after the test - because his body's finally,  _finally_  unwinding right down to the bone.  
  
As he's drifting off, all the sounds in the building drop away. The last thing he hears is Foggy's heartbeat, but he's asleep before he registers that it's too fast for somnolence.

 

***

 

The first thing Matt notices the next morning is that he's overslept. "Eight-forty," his alarm chirps when he swats at it irritably.  
  
"I hate you," he grumbles in response. The second thing he notices is that Foggy's not taking the cheap shot about talking to inanimate objects (again), because Foggy's not even there.  
  
But then, Matt  _is_  running late; he only wonders why Foggy hadn't tried to wake him before leaving. They usually get breakfast together, grousing about the food while their brains boot up. As it stands, Matt might have time to grab a coffee and a bagel on his way to class, but only if he gets out of bed  _now._  He scrubs a hand over his face and sits up, adding 'shave' to the list of things to put off 'till later.  
  
Foggy comes back, a whirl of warm damp air entering the room with him. Foggy smells like Ivory soap and cheap shampoo and Barbasol shaving cream and base notes that Matt's never identified consciously as more than the impression of familiarhome _Foggy._  
  
"Oh, hey," Foggy says, sounding surprised behind the dampening effect of the towel he's scrubbing against his hair. "Thought you'd be gone by now." There's something else in his voice, something strained and reedy, his heartbeat a fraction too quick.  
  
"Overslept," Matt says, shrugging and crossing the room to his closet.  
  
"Trouble sleeping?" Foggy says, and Matt senses his full-body  _wince_  as soon as the words are uttered, the heel of his hand bumping into his forehead a few times. It's a silent gesture, though, so he can't ask why Foggy would be...  
  
The penny drops.  _He heard me._  Matt's glad that he's facing away, so Foggy can't see his face. "No," he says, feigning nonchalance. "You?"  
  
Foggy's going to try to bullshit him; Matt can tell before he even speaks. "Oh, fine. Better than fine, even."  
  
Matt sighs. "Aren't lawyers supposed to be  _good_  liars?"  
  
"...yeah, all right," Foggy says, giving up, too. "But you seriously have no stones to throw - your neck goes all red when you're embarrassed, just so you're aware."  
  
"Thanks for the tip," Matt says. "So, um. Chalk this up to one of those inevitable awkward roommate things and move on?"  
  
"...really?" Foggy says, anxiety driving up his pitch by three whole notes. "You're not mad?"  
  
Matt turns around, because Foggy has the right to see the genuine bafflement in his expression. "...why would I be mad at  _you?"_    
  
Foggy's face is a shifting, twisting bloom of heat. "Oh, hey, it's eight fifty-five," he prevaricates. "Don't you have a test to get to?"  
  
"I'll say I missed the bus," Matt says, stepping forward, concerned when Foggy half-twitches, almost like a flinch. The TA for Matt's class is one of those overly-solicitous types; he doesn't like taking advantage of it, but he will when his friend's this distressed. "Foggy. Why would I be mad at you?"  
  
"...becauseIwaslistening," Foggy mumbles, so quick and low that it takes Matt a second to untangle.  
  
"Listening," he echoes, still processing it.  
  
"You're going to make me say it, aren't you," Foggy says, dragging a hand through his still-damp hair. He inhales deeply, but his heart is trip-hammering faster than Matt's ever heard it. All in a rush, he says, "I was listening, and I'm sorry, and I  _liked_  listening and I'm sorry about that, too, because I like  _you_  but I like being your friend  _more_  and I never meant for this to get weird but I had a moment of weakness and I'm  _sorry._ Really, really... sorry." His voice runs out, and the heat from his face has moved to his chest, sure sign of acute dread.  
  
"...oh," Matt says, something going tight behind his ribcage.  _Foggy **likes**  me,_ he thinks. "I thought you liked women," he says, immediately regretting it, because he's one to talk.  
  
Foggy huffs a laugh. "I like the fence," he replies. "I get a great view."  
  
This surprises a chuckle out of Matt. "Wish I could say the same," he responds wryly.  
  
"I know, I  _know,_ " Foggy says, "You're all Catholic and- wait. Hang on. Was that a straight joke or a blind joke or both?"  
  
Matt gives an expressive shrug. "...option number two," he admits.  
  
"Oh my god," Foggy says, incredulous. "Why didn't you  _tell_  me, there are like four more bars we could have been going to all this time."  
  
"That's your first reaction?" Matt asks, the corners of his mouth twitching.  _Foggy was listening,_  he thinks, warm all over.  _Foggy **liked**  listening. _Fragments of last night's fantasies intrude, and shit, if he'd  _known..._  
  
Well, he wouldn't have bothered trying to be quiet, for one thing.  
  
"How was I supposed to react?" Foggy says, and Matt steps forward again, glad that Foggy doesn't jolt this time. He's still as tense as a harp string, and Matt remembers to reach out like he's searching, trying to find where Foggy is. He's using it as a warning, giving Foggy plenty of time to escape if he wants.  
  
Foggy doesn't. Matt's outstretched hand lands on his upper arm, and Matt shifts it up, curling it around his shoulder. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you," he says, gentler echo of his friend's earlier confession. "I didn't mean for you to hear me, but I don't mind that you did. I-" suddenly apprehensive, he wets his lips, but Foggy inhales sharply at the movement, bolstering Matt's courage. "I  _like_  that you enjoyed hearing me."  
  
"I swear to god, Murdock, if you're fucking with me, I will kick your ass," Foggy breathes.  
  
"I wouldn't," Matt assures him. "I like being your friend, too, but. If you want." He lifts his free hand, fingertips lighting on Foggy's cheek, searching for the nuance of expression that his other senses can never quite fill in. He strokes careful lines across Foggy's forehead, finding no tension there; there are tiny creases beside his eyes and his cheek curves in a broad smile.  
  
"...oh," Foggy says. "I always wondered what that felt like."  
  
"Did you?" Matt says, finding the coarse scruff on Foggy's chin with the side of his thumb.  
  
"It's a little weird, like-" Foggy's voice is unsteady, exhalations ghosting over the tips of Matt's fingers as he traces the moving line of Foggy's lower lip. "Like you're staring at me with your hands."  
  
"I can stop," Matt says.  
  
"Yeah, you should maybe stop not-staring and kiss me already, how's that?" Foggy says, and Matt's still smiling when he leans in to comply.  
  


  
Matt never makes it to class; he ends up having to offset the missed test with extra credit. It's worth it, though - as it turns out, Foggy enjoys watching as much as he'd enjoyed eavesdropping.  
  
  
  
  
  
\-- end --


End file.
